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“Yes they will!” I said。 “None of the children in that city have a mother or a

father。 Hayriye; go downstairs and check the doors again。 We’ll probably be

asleep by the middle of the story。”

“I won’t fall asleep;” said Orhan。

“Where is Black going to sleep tonight?” said Shevket。

“In the workshop;” I said。 “Snuggle up tight to your mother so we can

warm up nicely under the quilt。 Whose icy little feet are these?”

“Mine;” said Shevket。 “Where will Hayriye sleep?”

I’d begun telling the story; and as always; Orhan fell asleep first; after

which I lowered my voice。

“After I fall asleep; you’re not going to leave the bed; right; Mama?” said

Shevket。

“No; I won’t leave。”

I really didn’t intend to leave。 After Shevket fell asleep; I was musing about

how pleasurable it was to fall asleep cuddled up with my sons on the night of

my second wedding—with my handsome; intelligent and desirous husband in

the next room。 I’d dozed off with such thoughts; but my sleep was fitful。 Later;

this is what I remembered about that strange restless realm between dreaming

and wakefulness: First I settled accounts with my deceased father’s angry

spirit; then I fled the specter of that disgraceful murderer who wanted to send

me off to be with my father。 As he pursued me; the unyielding murderer; even

more terrif

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